Infinite Possibility
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: "It's always the same with you, Kathy. Set a course for Earth. Stop to protect this species; catalogue that anomaly; try to not to get blown up by such-and-such hostile race. . . Repeat." Q pauses, looking at Paris. "It's all very tiresome, isn't it?"
1. Chapter 1

**Infinite Possibility **

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Story is set in early season four, and is inspired, in part, by a year of reflection on MissParker's "No Time Like the Present."

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><p><strong>I.<strong>

"_I fail to see what fun, what satisfaction_  
><em>A God can find in laughing at how badly<em>  
><em>Men fumble at the possibilities<em>  
><em>When left to guess forever for themselves<em>."

-Job, Robert Frost's _A Masque of Reason_

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><p>As Kathryn Janeway glances between Chakotay and Paris, she feels the faint beginnings of a headache forming at the front of her head. Having been thrown clear of Borg territory, they're in a dull region of space right now. No one really to shoot at them, and all of the ship's crucial having been met.<p>

They should feel grateful. But instead they're all bored and growing restless, Paris and Chakotay being the worst.

During busy weeks, things between her First Officer and helmsman are friendly, even warm; the two have worked out a little dance over the last three years.

The Commander feigns horror when the pilot makes an off color remark to the Captain, and Tom frequently leaves himself wide open for a barb that Chakotay always go for.

Tuvok sighs. Harry smiles. The Captain squeezes Tom's shoulder. Everyone has their choreographed part.

In slow weeks, however, the dance loses its rhythm; the two men find themselves, subtly and politely, at each others' throats. Chakotay looking for any reason to admonish the Lieutenant, and the pilot goading the Commander in ways that fail to rise to the level of verbal reproach.

The shift began with Tom sliding into his seat forty-five seconds late. Not enough for Chakotay to remark on without seeming petty, but enough to earn him a furrowed brow.

Janeway had inwardly sighed at the occurrence. Silently hoping that Tom was only returning the brief annoyance her First Officer caused him the previous day, having made a harsh crack about the pilot's inability to compensate for a slight distortion.

Now, six hours and an eternity into their shift, she's realized that the foul mood is here to stay for all of them.

Three hours ago, Chakotay ordered Paris to reduce their speed to warp four.

Tom dropped them to warp four point one.

An hour after that, she began bantering with Paris about their last pool match in Sandrine's. At which point the Commander remarked, with a little too much cheer, that come what may, they can always count on their Chief Conn Officer to be found at the nearest bar.

When Paris makes a smart aleck remark at Chakotay's expense, the Captain fights her urge to close her eyes in frustration. She can call the pilot out, of course, but doing so is in unfair. However past the line his behavior goes on days like this, it's always her First Officer who starts it- knowingly nudging the younger man past the bounds of propriety.

All she can do at this point is wait it out. Perhaps retreat into her ready room and the comforts of a steaming cup of coffee.

This last thought proves only a further rub. It's her presence on the bridge that restrains the two men from being even worse to one another, and there's no telling what will ensue if she leaves. She is forced to remain, watching them bicker, prod, and poke.

When she hears a patronizing if familiar voice beside her, coming from Chakotay's seat, it's just after she's sunk a little lower into her own chair.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd go for the whole brooding thing," the female Q remarks. "It's so hopelessly cliché."

Janeway stands up with a start, the entire bridge stirring to life with the appearance.

"What have you done with the Commander?" the Captain demands, noting that Chakotay is no where to be seen.

"Oh, calm down, Kathy. Your angry warrior is in the very capable hands of some Orion slave girls at the moment." Q adds, looking disdainful, "I'm sure the whole experience will be wasted on him, so don't worry that he's off having fun without you."

A stifled laugh is heard from the conn, and Janeway looks at Paris with a disapproving glare.

Q looks down at the helmsman, too, but with amusement and twinkling eyes.

"What is our current speed, helm boy?"

Tom rolls his eyes at the name, shifting his glance between Captain and then Q.

"Do I even need to answer that? You're omnipotent."

"Humor me," Q counters. "The way you humor Kathy here when you're trying to be a good boy for her."

He's thrown off by the statement at first. After a moment he narrows his eyes, replying with obvious rancor.

"_Voyager_ is presently traveling at warp four point one."

"Interesting," Q murmurs. "I could have sworn the buffoon with the tattoo ordered you to reduce speed to warp four earlier."

Tom flushes at the comment. He was sure that his pettiness hadn't gone unnoticed by the Captain, but hearing it announced aloud on the bridge is entirely different than it being silently catalogued.

Q seems amused at his embarrassment for only an instant, her expression morphing into one of disappointment.

"You have such delightfully petulant impulses. And you ruin them with guilt. How tragically and predictably human."

As Q tsks at Tom's growing discomfort, Janeway feels her ire reaching a boiling point.

"Q, return Commander Chakotay this instant!"

Getting up from Chakotay's seat, Q strolls down to the conn, seeming to ignore Janeway's angry declaration.

"The bridge is more fun without him, isn't it?" Q asks, leaning against the helm and looking down at Tom.

There any number of ways Tom could answer her truthfully. One of them being to agree with her.

"The Commander is an important officer and a good man. You should return him."

His characterization of Chakotay sounds sincere, and Q visibly deflates. Disappointed, perhaps, that he really thinks this.

"Q," the Captain begins again, but Q cuts her off with a dismissive wave before snapping her fingers.

When Chakotay reappears, he's back in his chair. But without his uniform, and in a garment that looks suspiciously like a loin cloth.

It's unclear who is more embarrassed by his state of undress; the Captain or the Commander.

"I'm not sure which of you is more disappointing," Q begins, her eyes trailing down Chakotay's body and stopping at the loin cloth. "You. . . or _you_."

As she finishes her statement, she turns to Tom, who looks back at her skeptically.

"Me?" he prods. "Disappointing? Doesn't one need to have expectations for someone to disappoint them?"

Q smiles sweetly, crossing her arms as she leans in as though sharing a secret.

"I do have expectations of you," she confides. "You're the amusing one after all. . . The only one who can get her to loosen up."

She gestures slightly to Janeway with her head at the word 'her', and Tom can see his Captain tense out of the corner of his eye.

"Q," the Captain begins, putting weight in her voice, "we do not have time for these distractions right now."

Q scoffs.

"Please! You're desperate for distraction. And I can understand why. You're all so obsessed with getting back to that insignificant little solar system that you never take the time to do anything enjoyable."

The Captain draws herself up at Q's words, and Tom shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Wishing the object of Janeway's ire wasn't in such close physical proximity to his own, decidedly mortal, flesh.

"It's always the same with you, Kathy. Set a course for Earth. Stop to protect this species; catalogue that anomaly; try to not to get blown up by such-and-such hostile race. . . Repeat." Q pauses, looking at Paris. "It's all very tiresome, isn't it?"

Tom looks at the omnipotent being skeptically.

"And that's why you're here," he questions slowly, "to bring a little fun into our otherwise boring mortal lives?"

"Why not," Q beams, "when you creatures are the reason I have my darling son?"

The pilot glances at Janeway hesitantly, the Captain taking in a deep breath. At Ops, Harry Kim privately wonders if she's counting backwards from ten.

"Q," the Captain begins, "we appreciate your interest, but what we'd like is to get under way. . . So, remembering your fondness for us. . . would you be so kind us at to quit our bridge?"

To everyone's surprise, Q smiles serenely, standing up from her perch at the helm.

"Of course," Q demurs. "All you had to do was ask nicely, Kathy."

With a twist of her wrist, Q disappears. And with her, Paris and Janeway.


	2. Chapter 2

**II. **

"_Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen today."_

_-Mark Twain_

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><p>When the light that encapsulated them recedes, Paris and Janeway find themselves without Q and without <em>Voyager<em>.

They're on an outside deck of what looks to be a hotel. The air is warm but not so hot as to be stifling; there's a pleasant breeze blowing and, slowly, it brings with it the faint smell of exotic plants.

It would come to no one's surprise that the helmsman recognizes their present location before his Captain does.

"Risa," Tom sighs, looking around with measured interest.

"Or some corner of the Continuum that Q has bent to look like Risa."

He nods an assent to her point, but doesn't make eye contact. They've both materialized in blue swim suits, but hers leaves less to the imagination than his.

"I'm not sure whether to be crushed that Q has left us or relieved," he says, eventually, approaching a cluster of lounge chairs and grabbing a towel from the back of one.

"I understand the sentiment," she admits, "but she's our only means back. I don't particularly like the idea of staying here for an eternity."

"There are worse places to be," he quips, handing her the towel with a sideways glance.

Her only response to his remark is a pointed look. He immediately averts his eyes from her glare, taking in the clear water in front of them and the two dozen or so hotel patrons or milling around it.

"Do you want to split up or stay together?" he asks, meeting his Captain's gaze, now that the towel is secured tightly around her.

"Let's split up," she responds with a nod. "I get the feeling that Q's intentions- whatever they are- aren't quite malevolent. But all the same, we should be careful. I don't know if any of this is real, but if it is-"

"-we don't want to contaminate whatever timeline we're in," he finishes, already understanding her concern.

After an hour of poking around, Janeway decides there's no useful information to be had as to whether any of this is real or not.

She discovers from chatting casually with the hotel's concierge and other patrons that this 'place' exists in the week before _Voyager_ disappeared into the Delta Quadrant. Even if she wanted to, there's no news to be gathered about events back home, or else their loved ones.

Should this all be real, she realizes that they could alter events; travel back to Earth or else Deep Space Nine, stopping _Voyager _from being transported away by the Caretaker.

In the back of her mind, she hopes for this reason none of it's just an illusion. It's not a debate she really wants to wage with herself.

When she circles back to the place she and Tom decided to meet, he's no where in sight. As she knows he has a tendency to lose track of time when onto something, she decides not worry. Yet.

She's reclining on a lounge, her eyes closed to block out the afternoon sun, when the familiar voice is once again heard beside her.

"You know, I find it crushing to see how much he's come to be like you. Pushing aside frivolity and pleasure for the sake of _serious _things like the preservation of insignificant timelines and empty principles."

Janeway opens her eyes slowly, if only to glare at Q for the dripping sarcasm with which the omnipotent creature address the 'serious' things she and Tom concern themselves with.

"How good of you to join us, Q," the Captain greets with strain. Her eyes taking in Q's rather interesting appearance.

Beside her, Q is leisurely stretched out in a swimsuit similar to her own, only in a vibrant shade of red. She wears a floppy straw hat that shades her face, which Janeway inwardly marks as strange.

Why shade one's eyes from the sun when immune to pain and discomfort?

"Oh, I've been here," Q admits. "Watching the two of you poke around this place like it's some maze you haven't figured out how to navigate."

Q pauses to sip a purple frozen concoction, and in the silence Janeway feels her ire beginning to bubble.

"Are you planning on returning us to our ship anytime soon?"

Q smirks, setting down her drink on the table between them.

"When is soon? If I return you to the moment you left- even you stay here for the equivalent of your natural lives- has any time really passed at all?"

In lieu of responding, Janeway scans the terrace in front of them. Watching the wind gently move the red and purple flowers that surround the hotel's pool.

"Is any of this real?" she asks eventually, and trying to keep the sound of longing from her voice.

"Does it matter?" Q asks, only to roll her eyes when Janeway glares at her. "Oh that's right. Your precious timeline. Well . . . you have my word that nothing you do here will change anything. When you go back, whether it's in an hour and or a year from now, everything will be as it was."

Though part of it Q's statement stirs Janeway's uneasiness, the assurance that they don't have to worry about the Temporal Prime Directive goes a long way in calming her thoughts. She hates temporal mechanics. And in part, it's because she doesn't trust herself to respect them.

After sometime is passed in silence, Q smiles slightly as Janeway begins to look around nervously.

"He'll be along shortly," Q breathes. "He's just finished hacking into the hotel's main computer. . . He was almost discovered by one of the hotel employees, but he managed to convince them that he'd misplaced his hotel pass and was looking for it." Q sips her drink again, regarding her companion with a spreading smile as she adds, "certainly is an enterprising creature."

"Yes," Janeway agrees, "though I find it fascinating that you've taken such a . . . keen interest in a mortal."

She represses her smirk at Q's obvious indignation. Part of Janeway suspects that if she were a mortal, Q would be blushing from an amusing mix of anger and embarrassment.

"I simply find it tragic," Q announces haughtily, "how serious he's become. Such an interesting creature ruined by the typical human preoccupations with duty and obligation."

Janeway's mind latches onto Q's comment moments earlier, when she first appeared next to her, as well as her statements standing on _Voyager_'s bridge.

"And you think that's my fault?"

"Another annoying human preoccupation," Q drawls, " the assignment of guilt and blame. Does it matter who's fault it is? Whether your helmsman has succumbed to the weight of your expectations or if he's found himself crushed under his own senseless feelings of inadequacy?"

Despite the dismissive manner with which Q voices them, both possibilities make Janeway frown. She thinks that Tom has grown into a mature and reliable person in his time on _Voyager_, not been crushed.

"The two can't be separated," Q says firmly, and without prompting.

"Come again?"

"You were just thinking that your helmsman has changed for the better, rather than ceding parts of himself. . . But the two can't be separated. To become the officer you wanted, he had to give up things that made him what he was before."

This makes Janeway's frown deepen, especially as Q voices the thesis without her typical condescension.

"Isn't there room for both?" Janeway asks eventually, her eyes once more taking in the seeming paradise around them.

Q shrugs. A sign of dismissal, Janeway assumes, as opposed to lack of knowledge.

"Does it matter if there is, if neither of you see it that way?"

After Q's last question, Janeway falls silent. Attempting to block out the doubts that Q's commentary invites.

It's a few minutes later that Tom appears at the end of the pathway, a small bag tucked under his arm, and making his way quickly to where they are. He regards Q with an arched eyebrow before turning his attention to his Captain.

"Sorry I'm late, Captain. I got a little. . . held up."

"I'm aware," she responds, gesturing to Q by way of explanation.

When his gaze shifts between the two of them, Q eyes the pilot with an appraising smirk.

"Nice swimsuit," Q says, sipping her drink once more.

"Thanks," Tom responds with seeming politeness. "Too bad I can't return the compliment. . . Red isn't really your color."

Q only regards him with an ominous expression before disappearing in her customary flash.

As Paris claims the lounge that Q has vacated, Janeway finds herself torn between amusement and what she knows to be more appropriate.

"As much as I understand the impulse, Lieutenant, I suspect its unwise for us to court Q's ire."

"Sorry," he responds, but without much contrition. "She just. . . has a way of getting under my skin."

She thinks about telling him that she understands the feeling all too well, but instead decides to press him for any findings.

"Not much of anything useful," he responds. "Though it appears that if this place is real, our being here isn't interfering the timeline." He adds, stretching out on the lounge a bit farther, "about an hour ago, one Kathryn Janeway signed for the official release of one Thomas Paris from the Federation penal facilities at Auckland."

She looks at him with interest; his present command codes aboard _Voyager _wouldn't have worked to get into the Starfleet database at this point, and even if they would have, she knows he wouldn't have taken the chance of such a record being left.

"My father's never been very good at changing his codes," he explains, trying to keep his voice casual even as he glances everywhere but her face.

He's supremely relieved when he hears her low chuckle next to him.

"Tom Paris; pilot, holo-writer, spy."

"Don't forget felon," he adds. "That one's important."

She isn't sure how to engage with the trace bitterness in his voice, especially after her conversation with Q. She settles on ignoring it for the time being.

"Q assured me that whatever happens here, it won't change the timeline. Your. . . investigation. . . is all the proof we can expect that she isn't deceiving us."

He nods, his only reply for the moment, before closing his eyes.

It's several minutes later, when she's begun to wonder if Tom's managed to fall asleep, that his voice finds her again.

"Is it better or worse if all of this is real, but we can't change anything?"

The question throws her off, her immediate impulse being to remind him of duty and Starfleet principles.

Whether she's stopped from doing that by the uncharacteristic openness in his voice or Q's earlier comments, she doesn't know. But either way, she finds herself replying honestly.

"I don't know. . . But I think I'm grateful that the decision isn't ours to make."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him give a shallow nod, his face contemplative as he watches the care-free tourists who surround them.

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, when he can't consign himself to silence anymore.

"Well, it looks as though we can't do any harm here. And it also appears that whatever Q's agenda, nothing we do is going to speed our return to _Voyager_."

"So?" he prompts, failing to rein in the grin that's already spreading across his face.

She fights against the impulse to roll her eyes at his enthusiasm, though she can't quite keep the pinched expression off her face.

"So, it looks as though we have some time to kill."

She says it as though she's cosigning herself to another one of Neelix's 'Talaxian delicacies', but her mood still doesn't quite stem his excitement.

When she stands up awkwardly, debating what to do about the towel around her, Paris' face lights up with recognition.

"I stopped by a shop on my way back," he informs her, reaching for the bag he's placed at the foot of the lounge. "Perhaps we should change before we get going?"

Gratitude washes over her features as she takes the article of clothing he hands her- a simple off-white dress that looks modest enough. She registers surprise at the fact that he's managed to procure the right size.

"You're about the size of my girlfriend in the Academy," he explains, clamping his mouth shut the second the words are out of his mouth.

She considers needling him for the slip, but thinks his obvious embarrassment is enough of a punishment for now.

"Dare I ask how you managed to get these for us?" she asks instead.

"It seems we're checked in here," he explains. "One of the hotel staff recognized me when they caught me milling about."

Abruptly, she stops their slow walk to the changing rooms, her face concerned.

"We aren't checked in under our real names are we?" she queries.

"No," he responds with a head shake. Hesitantly, he adds, "Mister and Misses Mark Johnson."

A shadow falls over her face, and he turns his eyes away as if to examine one of the shops that's now in view.

It's a generic enough name, but from both his hesitancy to tell her and his body language now, she guesses that he understands the significance. She privately files away the slight for another time, adding it to the growing list of ones Q has inflicted on her today.

"Ready, Mister Paris?" she asks, as he emerges from the changing room.

"Always, ma'am," he says with a smile and a decisive nod; his eyes already trained on the bustling crowd that awaits them in the market, ten meters away.


	3. Chapter 3

_**III. **_

"_The best scientist is open to experience and begins with romance- the idea that anything is possible." _

_-Ray Bradbury _

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><p>Having perused the resort's various shops for over an hour, Janeway looks up from the sculpture she's been examining, only to realize that her helmsman is no longer at her side.<p>

She makes a quick circle around the art shop she's been exploring, but finds no sign of Tom in any of the small rooms that comprise the venue. She exits the shop, returning to the main promenade, her concern beginning to mount.

What if the female Q has spirited him away to some other place, another whim catching the omnipotent creature's fancy?

It's a few moments later that Janeway spots the sandy-haired pilot in the book store directly across from the art dealer. And promptly she fills with frustration that he left without telling her, disappearing into this other shop without a thought as to the precarious nature of their surroundings.

Upon approaching him, her temptation is to address him by rank. But before she opens her mouth, she catches herself. She has no idea whether their pseudonyms here really matter, but if one staff member has already associated Tom with the name Mark Johnson, she judges it better to play it safe in crowded places.

"You disappeared," she says sternly, standing beside him in the aisle.

"Sorry," he replies absently, thumbing through a volume. "This place caught my eye."

Her frustration, initially goaded by the fact that he seems only thinly apologetic, is thereafter supplanted by interest when she sees that he's thumbing through a Cardassian novel. She would have expected to him to be skimming through titles on flight design or Earth history, not reading literature.

But then, she really wouldn't have expected him to be drawn to a purveyor of traditional books in the first place.

"Find anything interesting?" she asks, now genuinely curious as he furrows his brow at the page he's reading.

"I know that _The Never Ending Sacrifice _is held by a lot of folks to be the paradigm of the repetitive epic style," he says, re-shelving the book, "but I have no idea why Cardassians consider it anything but a tragedy."

Seeing Janeway's stunned expression, Paris looks at her briefly, pulling another book from a lower shelf.

"I didn't mean to offend. . . If it's a favorite of yours."

"No," she replies immediately. And hoping that he didn't pick up on the fact that her surprise was at the idea that he had any opinions at all on classic literature. "I read it twice in the Academy, but never really saw the uplifting themes the author intended. . . One family making all of those sacrifices for the sake of the Cardassian government. . . Quite overwhelming."

Paris nods silently. Not giving any hint of his own surprise at her last statement. At least, coming from someone who practically sprinted to the Academy, and despite having lost more than a dozen of her ancestors to the dangers of Starfleet duty.

"I guess poetry is more my speed than tragedy," he remarks instead, looking up from his current reading long enough to smile at her.

"Keats," she notes, nodding to the book he's selected and examining the shelves herself. "A personal favorite. Though admittedly, I haven't read him in some years."

Tom slides this last selection back onto the shelf with an unconcerned shrug before slouching against the bookcase.

"I'm sure good Mr. Keats understands that you've been rather busy," he smirks. "And besides, a wise man once said that poetry is only the evidence of life. And if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."

"Interesting thesis," she murmurs, reaching for another book. "Who offered it?"

"Leonard Cohen. Twentieth century."

"Philosopher?"

"Kind of," he laughs, pushing off from shelf against which he's been leaning.

She's too lost in the volume in her hand to pursue his cryptic answer, and so their conversation dies out, Tom patiently waiting next to his companion as she finishes her own exploring.

Another hour later, and Janeway is wilting while Paris has maintained the same energy level. When the pilot spots a vender that peaks his interest, his Captain waves him on half-heartedly as she remains in the walkway outside.

"Finished _already_, Kathy?" Q asks, appearing beside Janeway in a flowing floral dress.

Janeway forces herself to take a deep breath, immediately chafed by Q's annoyed tone.

"Mister Paris found something interesting over there, while I did not. I am compromising by remaining here to wait for him," Janeway responds, deliberately slowing her clip.

Q seems even more vexed by the response, crossing her arms in open agitation as she regards her mortal interlocutor.

"Do Q's not make compromises?" Janeway asks, now openly courting Q's ire.

"One of us came close recently," Q says matter-of-factly. "But then he realized how unpalatable it was to mate with _you _when he could have me."

Swallowing her acerbic reply, Janeway forces herself to regain her composure. She can stand here for all eternity- quite literally-having a battle of wills with Q, but it will not do her, nor her Lieutenant, any good.

"Have you given any thought to returning us to our ship?" Janeway asks, in her best diplomatic tone.

The female Q rolls her eyes, Janeway's question failing to interest her.

"Your ship and that boring fellow with the drawing on his face are both as you left them," Q remarks, her hazel eyes borrowing into opposing grey ones. "_Everything_ that you left is the same as it always been. While this," she continues, gesturing elegantly, "is new and interesting. . . Not that you seem to appreciate it."

"What we do not appreciate is being held against our wills, Q."

" 'We'?" Q prods. "Your officer seems to be doing quite well here. . . Perhaps he's more adaptable than his rigid Captain?"

Refusing to engage with the line of questioning, Janeway searches for anything that can be gained from Q's reappearance, aside from her own raised blood pressure.

"Perhaps it would be help me to 'appreciate' this," Janeway begins anew, "if I knew what the point of all of this _is_. You've removed us from our ship, deposited us here. And now you seem directly invested in our participation in our environment. . . Is this somehow a metaphor for something in the Continuum? Is there something at stake for the Q that I've failed to apprehend?"

Janeway's sincere inquiry seems to only to renew Q's frustration, and in front of her , Q fumes and bristles.

"Do not confuse my endeavors here with my mate's unfortunate and pathetic attempts to explain the Continuum to your limited minds. What I have offered you has no bearing on anything beyond your own insignificant lives."

"And you've offered what, precisely?" Janeway tosses back, and despite that Q looks at her as though it's obvious.

"A chance to genuinely attain what you humans desperately grasp for everyday: an escape from the prison of your fleeting, if painfully boring lives."

"Humanity is at its best when holding onto life, not escaping it," Janeway counters.

"Really?" Q asks innocently. "Is that what you thought when you locked yourself away in a holodeck to pretend your were a nanny rather than a Captain? Is that what you told yourself when you set up house in that tiny little shelter with your First Officer?"

Which question strikes smacks her harder, Janeway doesn't know. But either way, her cheeks flush with indignation and her eyes take on a dangerous gleam. The Captain's mouth parts to voice a reply she will no doubt regret when her Lieutenant appears at her side.

"Q," Paris states. And more as a statement of disdain than a greeting.

"Enjoying yourself, helm boy?" Q questions, the use of the name Paris loathes the only sign of mockery.

"For the most part," Tom allows, crossing his arms. "But I just keep getting distracted by why a powerful creature like yourself would care about granting two lowly humans some rest and recreation."

Though looking uninterested, Q seems less annoyed by Tom's observation than Janeway's similar one. And as Janeway watches the exchange, she wonders if it's just the breezy manner her officer is speaking in, or else a genuine partiality of Q's that ocurred to her earlier. One they can perhaps use to their advantage.

"I mean, you've made it clear," Tom continues, "that you find us boring. Predictable. About as interesting as watching grass grow. Not to mention that you have Q at home, and now a child. Why leave your growing family behind to trifle with us in passing?"

The Lieutenant voices all of this as thought speaking to himself rather than Q, and as he pauses, as if to consider his own question, Q shows her first signs of genuine unease. Whatever unease means for a Q.

"The only thing I can come up with," Tom concludes, "is that there's trouble in your little omnipotent paradise. . . And if humans are said to have a seven-year itch, I can only _imagine _what one needs to have scratched after millennia of insults and indulgent behaviors."

He punctuates his last statement with a feigned frown of sympathy, Q raising her hand as though to snap to her wrist and spirit him away to some untold corner of hell.

"Q," Janeway interrupts, her tone immediately placating.

Q glowers but lower hers arm, Janeway thereafter glaring at Paris, who promptly shifts his gaze away from his CO's frustrated grey eyes.

"Perhaps you should resume your perusing, Mister Paris," Janeway remarks in a harsh voice.

The Lieutenant acknowledge the implied order with only a nod, Q's features transforming from angry to fascinated as Paris quickly strides away from them.

"Interesting," Q intones.

"Mister Paris is prone to speaking without reflection," Janeway offers. "He meant no disrespect."

"He wanted to vex me," Q observes, ignoring the apology that's of no interest to her. "And you punished him for doing what you desired to do only moment earlier. . . Is your frustration with him hypocritical? Or, when it manifests, is it simply a sign of your own displeasure with yourself?"

Q's line of questioning joins the many uncomfortable observations that now float in Janeway's mind. And hearing Q adopt the same detached tone she did when speaking of how Tom has been forced to change to fit into the mold of a Starfleet officer, Janeway silently decides that she preferred talking about her holodeck time and New Earth.

"I'm not displeased with Tom," Janeway shakes her head. Not sure, even as she utters the statement, why she's engaging with the question.

"A lie," Q retorts. "But even if it were true, you've left him with the decided impression that you _are_ displeased with him. Which is worse? That you're actually angry at him for doing exactly what you would have? Or that you're not angry, but made him think you are?" She adds with a smile, upon seeing Janeway's mouth press into a thin line, "not an ideal set of choices, is it?"

"I value Tom Paris," Janeway insists. "He's an intelligent officer and someone I rely on."

"Yes," Q confirms. "And you even enjoy him."

Janeway looks on mutely; not debating whether to reject the observation but cautious enough not to confirm it immediately.

"On that sad little vessel of yours, when you're sitting in that chair next to what's-his-face and you get excited about some bit of universe that seems novel to you, who is it that gets excited with you? Who is it that doesn't caution you about the dangers or the 'needless' delay? Who is the first person you take with you because you know he won't quote Starfleet drivel at you when you plunge forward, breaking all the rules you yourself cite on a daily basis to others?"

Janeway refuses to grace Q's smug inquiries with a reply. But the pressing of her lips into an even thinner line is enough of a signal to her opponent, Q basking in Janeway's agitation.

"And earlier, when you thought I'd taken him away somewhere- you were worried. Not just because I could have deposited him in the middle of dwarf star, but because I very well might have taken him back to your ship. Leaving you here, all alone."

"I will readily comply to you returning Lieutenant Paris to _Voyager_ if you demand to retain me as a hostage," Janeway retorts immediately. But Q only smirks.

"Once again, your tiny human mind has missed the point."

"Enlighten me," Janeway challenges, her voice now a growl.

"Your Mister Paris is the person you prefer to go off and have adventures with, Kathy! The person who not only enjoys the things you do, but the things you _wish to_ _enjoy_, beneath your practiced routine of duty for breakfast and the same for lunch and dinner! And yet you punish him for being all of these things, bit by bit stamping out the very traits you hold in regard. And so I ask- for the second time- is your anger at him merely hypocritical, or a symptom of your anger at yourself?"

Before Janeway has even considered her answer, Q is gone once more. The starship Captain gaping with confusion and anger at the spot Q occupied only seconds earlier.

Her head now filled with a multitude of unpleasant questions, Janeway sets out in search of the officer she has dismissed. And going shop by shop, she fills with regret at the way she handled things with Tom earlier. Still, she tries to block out Q's other implications, telling herself she doesn't have the luxury of considering them here, in their present circumstances.

When she finds Tom again, he's standing just outside of a toy store, crouched down and talking to a small Terran girl who looks to be about six years old. The girl's mother begins to laugh as the pilot gestures animatedly to a small toy in his hand, and a moment later, the metallic object levitates, emitting blue light and a series of chimes.

The child giggles and cheers while Janeway approaches, Paris pushing himself up to his feet as he spots her coming to join them.

"There you are," Janeway smiles, continuing to watch the toy move in the air.

"Leena and Torel here we were having a little trouble getting this Andorian trinket to perform properly," Tom explains, before looking at the child with a wink. "I think it might have had stage fright."

"Sorry it hit you on the shoulder," the child's mother apologizes. "We shouldn't have powered it on here, with all the people around. . ." As the woman's voice drifts off, she looks at Janeway, who immediately steps forward.

"I'm Kathryn," Janeway offers. "Mark's wife."

"Mark?" the woman echoes, looking at questioningly at Tom. "I thought your name was Tom."

"Tom's my middle name," Tom rushes to say. "Only my mother and Kathryn call me Mark."

The explanation dispels the woman's wariness. And as they all wish each other a happy stay at the resort, Tom tries not to look over at his Captain, afraid she'll be upset at his apparent gaffe.

"Well. If I ever need to have an Andorian toy fixed, I know who to come to," she says instead, looking at him with a smile once they're alone.

He's thrown off by Janeway's reaction, but doesn't think to look a gifthorse in the mouth.

"I'd like to think I specialize in all toys," Tom deadpans, crossing his arms behind him.

"So your specialties are, in order of competence, advanced flight and children's toys?"

He smirks, realizing he shouldn't voice his present thought, but unable to stop himself.

"I realize this may not be what you want to hear, ma'am. But I tend to think of piloting _Voyager _as flying one really big, complicated toy." She arches an eyebrow at him, and as if to placate her, he adds, "my favorite toy."

Janeway only snorts in response, putting her hand on his arm to steer him back through the promenade.

"Hungry, Tom?" she asks, eyeing the crowd.

"I thought I was Mark," he jokes, deciding to explore her good humor.

"Mark when anyone is listening," she corrects. "But other than that, I prefer your real name."

"And what of your own appellation preferences? Would you like me to address you as 'Wife'? Or perhaps 'First Wife'?"

" '_First_ Wife'?" she asks incredulously, but smiling nonetheless. "Aren't we ambitious."

"I'm a likable guy. And you never know what customs people follow. I met someone once who had nine wives." She pulls a face at this, and he looks at her innocently as he asks, "what's the matter, ma'am? Don't like crowded dinner tables?"

"Crowds are fine," she replies casually. "But I take exception to duty rosters for conjugal relations."

The off-color remark floors him, as she intended it to, and she maintains a perfectly straight face while he look at her with a mix of horror and delight.

"But that's all beside the original point," she continues, "which was, I believe, whether or not you're interested in food."

"I'm always interested in food," he replies truthfully, to which she nods, looking around for the cluster of restaurants they passed hours earlier.

"It could be worse," she admits, once they're looping around, back the way they came.

"Ma'am?"

"Q holding us hostage," she elaborates. "The last time I was taken by a Q, I was tied up and almost shot."

"A fair point, Captain."

"Tom," she says now, stopping suddenly and turning toward him, "I normally appreciate the adherence to formality in titles. But given the circumstances, we need drop the use of rank in public."

"You want me to call you by your first name?" he asks, looking as though he'd never considered the possibility before.

She feels a dark amusement at Tom's hesitance, his normal confidence failing him the second things get too personal.

" 'Kathryn'," she pronounces deliberately, and with a smirk. "Only two syllables in the word. But I'll understand if you need time to practice pronouncing it."

He gives her a mock glare, however muted, and nods to the Vulcan restaurant that appears ahead of them on the right.

"I'll work on it," Tom assures with an air of seriousness. "But if I have trouble, I'll just fall back on 'First Wife'."

"Only if you want to be referred to as 'Late Husband,' " she retorts, before being met by a smiling Trill at the door of the restaurant.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV. **

"_There are many who are living far below their possibilities because they are continually handing over their individuality to others."_

_- Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

><p>The Lieutenant's almost impeccable table manners take his Captain by surprise, and in the silence that eventually ensues over their meal, she contemplates the likelihood that such habits are lasting legacies of his upbringing.<p>

Though her father was an Admiral like Tom's, she grew up in Indiana, away from Fleet society and the bright glare of San Francisco scrutiny. Tom wasn't so lucky. And as he meticulously adjusts the napkin his lap, his dining companion wonders how many of his behaviors bear testimony to the expectations of his family.

"Do you not care for your pok tar?" he asks, lifting his eyes from his own to plate to hers, mostly untouched.

"You know, I used to love it," she confesses. "But it tastes a little more. . . bland than I remember."

Tom gives her a thoughtful look, pushing his own plate a few centimeters closer to the center of the table.

"Have some of my jumbo mollusks," he offers, nodding his head to teeming platter of Vulcan seafood. "They're amazing. And perfectly cooked."

She doesn't want to be rude, and his plate does look much better than hers. But still she's cautious, somehow uncomfortable with the intimate gesture of sharing food.

It's a strange feeling to have now, given how many times she's looked over at Tom and B'Elanna dining casually together in the mess hall, or else watched with a smile as Tom stole a piece of something from Harry's tray without asking. Each time aware of the study tug of envy within her.

Dining behaviors reveal more about people and relationships than most realize. A companionable quiet over a few shared plates; a rigid meal where no one looks much above their wine glasses. The degree of boundary enforcement betraying any number of realities, from profound affection to complete and utter isolation.

Thinking back, she can't even remember the last occasion someone reached onto her plate, though surely it was at home, with Mark.

"Good?" he asks, after she's freed part of a mollusk from its shell and forked a bite into her mouth.

"Amazing," she replies. And with a blissful expression he's rarely seen her adopt when it comes to food. . . Rarely seen her adopt at all, really.

"Help me finish it," he grins, pushing his plate ever farther toward her.

"Are you sure?" she asks hesitantly.

"This platter is huge," he laughs, "I'll never finish it. And besides, I'm trying to cut down. . ."

She represses a smirk at his last comment. She's noticed his weight slowly creeping up. And felt a sense of sympathy. The last time she wore civilian clothes, she had to shimmy into a dress she's owned for over ten years.

The butter sauce on the mollusks is hardly going to help her plight in that regard. But then, they have no idea if this place is purely illusory, and so too the calorie-dense food within.

"Come on," he almost pleads, "unless you'd prefer to go back to your boring vegetable mash."

Janeway scowls at the taunt, but nevertheless capitulates. His dinner _is _better than hers, after all.

They both dig into the generous platter of food, Janeway careful to avoid bumping awkwardly into Paris' fork.

"I'm sorry about before . . ." Tom says eventually, his gaze suddenly fascinated with the task of carefully and slowly cutting up a mollusk.

The apology takes her by surprise. She abruptly wells with regret at how harshly she reacted when he interceded in her conversation with Q, and that now he's taking responsibility for it.

"Oh. . . Tom, you don't need to be sorry about that exchange with Q. I'm just. . . frustrated with the situation. And you caught the brunt of it."

She watches as he colors slightly, his eyes not lifting from his plate. If he dissects that mollusk any smaller, she thinks, he's going to need a tricorder to find the pieces on his plate.

"I didn't actually mean about that," he says, clearing his throat midway through. "I meant. . . About our names here at the resort. Q's . . . questionable sense of humor."

His voice, already low, drops an octave at the end. Discomfort and disgust fighting for prominence on his face.

"One becomes accustomed to such slights. . . when one's job involves diplomacy."

She couples her perfunctory reply with another bite of her dinner. Silently praying that Tom will drop this line of conversation by the time her mouth is unobstructed.

"Maybe a creature who lives forever can't really understand what is to miss someone," he says after a few moments, and meeting her eyes briefly.

The sincerity of the statement- his obvious pain for her- is something that moves her. However compassionate and giving her helmsman, he normally tries to camouflage such traits under cynicism and glibness. Not that such efforts have ever really fooled her.

She waits for him to look up again, their eyes meeting once more. And then she lets her affection, her personal appreciation of him, show on her features. Even if in a measured way.

"Thank you for your tact earlier, at the resort." She sits back in her chair, looking relaxed even as she unconsciously tries to create distant between them. "Most officers would have trouble with the idea that their CO's are flesh and blood, complete with romantic pasts."

His jaw tightens at her observation. An acerbic reply about the expected divorce of Starfleet duty and humanity stinging his throat as he swallows it.

She watches, subtly, as he pushes down reflections on his childhood, his father. Watches as he summons a practiced smile to his face, and with as little effort as it takes for her to call for lights in her quarters.

"Funny," he grins. "The things I like most about you are the things that make you human."

"Oh?" she asks, crossing her arms. Giving him a look that would make Chakotay- or anyone with less gall and more sense- begin to backpedal.

"Your addiction to coffee," he supplies. "Your - what was it Tuvok called it the other week? 'Irrational fear of arachnids'?"

"It isn't a _fear_," she counters immediately. And simultaneously steeling herself against the memory of _Voyager'_ssmall infestation of large, spiny-legged spiders, which were transported aboard with their last round of bartered food stuffs. "I do, however, _dislike_ finding them in my bathtub."

"To the point that you called your Chief of Security," he points out, in his most respectful tone.

"I was meeting him for a working dinner anyway," she defends, now irrationally intent on denying his claim. "I simply. . . commed him to my quarters half an hour early."

Paris gives a small grin, not bothering to further point out that she had Harry sweep her quarters for more spiders. Twice.

"So then not an irrational fear of spiders," he placates. "But there are still other things. . . Like your temper."

This last comment earns him a full eyebrow arch, as he knew it would. And by cue, Tom pretends to cower and hide under the tablecloth.

Janeway's indignation quickly dissolves into peels of laughter.

"Fine, fine. . . I have a boiling point," she chuckles. "But I contend that it's a brand of righteous anger."

"Of course," he drawls, smiling hugely. "Captains are never cranky for no reason."

He doesn't push the joke any father, realizing that she's letting him dance relatively close to the line. Content to bask for a moment in her genuine cheer at his cheek.

All of his life, people have accused Tom of not knowing where the appropriate boundaries are. Boundaries of taste, morality, duty. Plain decency. But the truth is, Tom is a person who is keenly aware of where all the lines are, even when he steps right over them.

Watching his Captain chuckle freely, he wonders which of them has suffered more because of their awareness of those boundaries. Janeway for feeling inexplicably bound to them, even (or perhaps especially?) in those instances when she chooses to ignore them. Or himself, for feeling an almost compulsive urge to flout them at great cost to himself.

When Janeway stills, regarding her abruptly contemplative officer, she looks across the table curiously.

"What is it?" she asks, her smile now dimming slightly.

"It might be rude to say this," Tom begins seriously. "But I feel I'd be letting you down. . . as your husband. . . if I didn't tell you."

He leans over the table, looking serious, and she finds herself leaning to meet him. Abruptly concerned and disconcerted by his manner.

When he resumes his thought, his voice has dropped to a whisper.

"You have exoskeleton on your chin."

They both begin to laugh as she tries to wipe the mollusk shell from her face, each convulsing with giggles, albeit at different times, when she repeatedly misses the piece of debris with her napkin.

. . . . .

When they slowly circle the terrace they began on, easy banter and fits of laughter have fled them. The Risian sun is steadily descending in the sky and Q has not made an appearance for several hours.

Janeway is restless, uneasy at the idea of spending even more time away from her ship. So too, uneasy at the idea that she and Tom may have to try to get some sleep here, seeking out the room that was no doubt designed for a romantic couple.

For his part, Paris is mostly mute. He can feel Janeway's frustration and worry quietly pulsing beside him, and he knows no observation he can make will help matters.

Still, there is only so much strained silence he can take, and so after their fourth lap around the terrace, he motions over the railing to another pool that stretches out below the main one.

"If it's alright with you, I'm going to go for a swim."

He doesn't use her rank, per her earlier request, but his tone defers to her authority.

She nods, looking at the long line of lounge chairs on the other side.

He departs in the direction of the station where they left their swim attire. And after she claims a lounge, stretching out slowly, she watches as he reappears on the far end of the terrace, plucking his way through the crowd to the staircase that will take him to the lower pool.

She expects to feel relieved when her pilot is gone, leaving her alone, with a chance to collect her thoughts without someone watching her.

After twenty minutes, it becomes clear the solitude is only exacerbating her restlessness. She vaguely considers the idea of going and finding Tom.

She's been fighting the urge to go off and join Paris for ten minutes when she realizes that Q had materialized beside her. How long the creature has been there, Janeway can't quite pinpoint, as Q has appeared without either her customary flash or any immediate comment.

Q wears the same swimsuit and straw hat that she donned when she first appeared on the terrace. But joining the hat now is an oversized pair of tinted glasses.

Like the hat, the glasses strike Janeway as odd. But odder still is the way Q stretches out in the lounge, apparently paying _Voyager_'s Captain no mind.

"Lovely breeze," Q comments eventually. But in a polite voice that any tourist could easily adopt when in close proximity to another.

Janeway waits for Q to go on, but no other commentary follows. The powerful being stretching out further on the lounge, almost appearing close to sleep.

"I've considered your observations," Janeway volunteers, suddenly feeling the need to fill the silence. "I don't know that they're quite accurate, but I can appreciate why you were trying to caution me about my rapport with Mister Paris."

No reply is offered by Q, the only sound the gentle rustle of wind through the resort's landscaping and the distant din of people.

Janeway fidgets, however slightly, in her recliner; not sure what Q's silence means, and somehow more uncomfortable with it than Q's characteristic haughtiness.

"Are you content to keep us here much longer?" Janeway demands, and in a tone designed to draw an argument.

Q sighs, adjusting the glasses on her nose before allowing her hand to gracefully fall against her body.

"However pleasant the appearances of the holding cell," Janeway continues, "hostages are still hostages. Being held against our will is an intolerable action."

"The pool is a wonderful temperature," Q observes, and in the same polite tone. "You should consider taking a dip."

Janeway fumes at the apparent dismissal, and Q eventually pushes the glasses down on her nose, casting a long look at her angry companion.

"Helm boy went down to the other pool to give you some privacy, in case you actually chose to unwind. . . Shame to waste the gesture by sitting here and griping at me with the same pointless complaints you've voiced all day."

Q's tone is one of mild annoyance. Relatively measured, as Q's criticisms go.

Janeway looks away, fixing her eyes the staircase that Tom descended sometime earlier. She's surprised by the revelation that he did so to give her space, rather than because he wanted to ditch his CO.

Whether too vexed by Q's new companionability, or giving into the lure of the pool, Janeway rises to seek out her previous swim attire.

The Captain changes quickly, making a beeline to the diving-board, where she executes a flawless pike. She then swims more than a dozen laps, stopping only when other tourists swim across her path.

Reaching the edge once more, she notices Q, now in the pool and floating several meters away.

Janeway concludes her laps, approaching Q with barely masked interest. The straw hat is gone but the glasses remain. Long, red hair spreads out around Q as she floats tranquilly, her chest failing to rise or fall.

The Captain almost stops herself from saying anything, afraid to disturb such an image of peace and contentment. She quickly shakes the thought away with the reminder that Q is their captor, and has hardly shown any respect for their preferences or projects.

"You can't even relax properly, can you?" Q asks, just as Janeway opens her mouth to say something.

Q doesn't stop floating, bobbing along slowly with the waves that are being created within the pool. A brochure-worthy appearance of calm in the exotic landscape.

"You even have to regiment your pool time," Q continues. "Can't let go even when you're alone." A deep sigh, even as she continues to move gently at the top of the water. "Tragic, given how infinitesimally short your lives are."

Janeway lets out a deep breath of fatigue. As much as she's tried to bait Q in the last half hour, she doesn't really want to debate her life choices with her. Especially as she's starting to think she's coming out on the losing end of the argument.

"You should take a lesson from your pilot," Q says, this time returning to the pleasant tone she adopted in the lounge chair. "Follow his own approach to relaxing."

"Which is?" Janeway sighs.

"This," Q replies, fanning her arms out in the water.

Janeway gives an involuntary smile. More than able to picture Tom floating in the water, appearing as carefree as Q does before her.

The idea of doing so herself appeals to Janeway, but humoring Q (or even giving the appearance of humoring Q) is something she won't allow herself at the moment.

She quits the pool and the bobbing demi-god, going off to knowingly disturb the relaxation her officer is engaging in.

"Cap. . . Kathryn," Tom greets stiltedly, when Janeway appears next to him, standing on the edge of the pool.

The discomfort with which he says her first name is comical. But it's lost on Janeway, who is standing erect enough to be in her pips and uniform rather than a swimsuit.

"Anything I should be apprised of?" he asks, pulling himself out of the pool in one quick movement.

Janeway averts her eyes from his muscled body while he rises. And once he stands, he meets her gaze, not allowing his own eyes to wander lower.

"I'm no longer willing to go along with this- charade," she declares. As though she's been somehow complicit in it until this point. Or as if they have any choice now.

Tom schools his features as he towels himself off. He knows better than to point out their lack of options, but he's also confused by her sudden and dramatic anger.

Not that he's ever thought it a particularly fruitful endeavor, hunting for the root of Janeway's temper flares.

She begins to pace, slowly and as though on the bridge. And Tom watches, waiting for orders. Or perhaps waiting for her to come to terms with the position their in. . . Which all things considered, could be much worse.

The Captain begins to think out loud, ignoring her own directive to her pilot to watch talk of ranks and _Voyager_, doing so herself now within earshot of droves of tourists.

Not long into Janeway's verbal brainstorming, Q appears a meter from them, abandoning her resort attire for a Starfleet uniform, though one whose design Janeway and Paris have never seen.

"If it is so untenable for you to be in this environment, I'm happy to produce a more suitable one for you," Q offers. But in an ominous tone that makes Paris' stomach begin to churn.

"This is fine," he says quickly, and watching as Janeway estimates her misstep.

"There's no need to . . . produce another environment for Mister Paris," Janeway openly pleads, stepping between Q and Tom. "Just take me."

"I would never separate a Captain from her crewmember," Q replies darkly.

And with a snap of her wrist, the resort is replaced with a momentary, blinding light.

When Janeway and Paris materialize in their new surroundings, their nostrils and throats are assaulted by clouds of smoke, their ears filled with discordant cries of pain and panic.


	5. Chapter 5

**V. **

"_The becoming of man is the history of the exhaustion of his possibilities."  
>-Susan Sontag<em>

* * *

><p>When they materialize in their new surroundings, Q is no where to be seen. Not that either of them <em>could <em>see her, through the thick layers of smoke and ash being released by the smoldering buildings around them.

As they instinctively seek cover, both officers look around, attempting to glean the location of the apparent war zone they've been dropped into.

"Starfleet Headquarters," Janeway chokes, the sound of her surprise hidden by her throat's desperate attempts to fill her lungs with oxygen.

Paris nods, crouching down next to the building they've taken refuge under. Or at least, the remnants of what used to be a building.

A loud sound above them; not the first of its kind since they arrived. Both squint through the chaos to peer into the blue sky, now curtained by plumes of black and grey, and see more than a dozen small vessels laying fire to the Golden Gate.

"What origin are they?" Paris asks, looking to Janeway.

"I don't know," she admits. "I've never seen anything of that configuration."

As they absorb the sights and sounds of San Francisco—the very heart of Starfleet and the Federation—being under siege, worry swells within the young pilot.

"We need to find survivors," Tom says, meeting his Captain's grey eyes.

Janeway is about to respond when Paris quits her side, having already located a prone form in his peripheral vision.

It's another instance of Paris showing something less than full attention to protocol, but this fact doesn't occur to Janeway, her shorter silhouette quickly following his taller one as he trots across what's left of HQ's landscape.

Tom is already leaning over a young Vulcan officer, her body pinned below a pylon, when Janeway appears at his side.

"I cannot feel my legs," the young woman, still somehow stoic, manages to say.

Paris has limited medical knowledge, though apparently more than Janeway. Even then, they have no medical equipment, and only their phasers and standard-issue tricorders, both of which Q deemed fit to provide them with.

"We can modify our phasers to cut through that rock," Paris says to Janeway, with a nod to the fallen pylon.

Janeway here hesitates. They still don't know if any of this is real, but even if it is, Q has promised that nothing they do would change the timeline.

The assertion that once was a comfort now seems a cruel joke.

"Tom," she begins, but is stopped by how pleading his eyes are; the completion desperation that's oozing from him. "Alright," she nods.

Standing from where she's crouched beside him, she begins to set both of their phasers. But when she looks up, she's several yards away from where she last stood, and Paris, as well as all the flames and chaos around him, are frozen in place.

"Don't you think it's a little irrational, working to save someone in a world where your actions have no consequence?"

The evenness of Q's voice is more horrifying to Janeway than the being's typical snark. The Captain wheels around, her eyes alight with rage and a veiled version of the desperation evident in Paris.

"Why did you bring us here?" she demands, and Q gives a dismissive wave.

"This is what you live for, Kathy. Battles and adrenaline. The thrill of a Startfleet life. I tried to give you something more pleasant, but you rejected it. And so I brought you here."

Janeway looks to Paris and then the prone form of the mortally wounded officer. There's no one else around them; no one in any position to aid the woman in whatever version of this reality existing independent of them.

"She dies," Janeway says, her countenance summoning the young Vulcan's stoicism.

"Yes," Q confirms.

Janeway falls still, taking in the frozen landscape, once familiar, now cast in the shadows of destruction.

She doesn't bother to ask when this takes place. The buildings are similar enough to what she knows that it's obviously well within her lifetime, though sometime after _Voyager_ was thrown into the Delta Quadrant. The idea that it could have already happened is no worse for her than the idea that it is yet to.

"Why did you indulge him?" Q asks, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. Perhaps even a Q is capable of reverence.

The word 'indulge' strikes Janeway as off, but she understands the question. If she were alone, the choice of whether to help the woman would have been harder to make. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she's rationalized that the responsible thing to do would be to let fate, a force she doesn't even believe in, play out without her interference.

"I couldn't deny him," Janeway admits. "I couldn't force him to stand aside as she dies."

"But she dies anyway. None of this changes that."

"It changes something for him," the Captain sighs. "It. . . would rob him of something, to stand by and do nothing."

Janeway glances sideways at Q in time to see the being's face shift into a cryptic expression.

"What?" Janeway asks.

Q gazes forward, her eyes locking with Paris' lean form.

"In the future, you'll be angry at him for refusing to do nothing. . . You'll try to break him—when he challenges your decision and tries to save something that can't be saved."

_You'll try to break him._ The words, voiced so neutrally by Q, strike at Janeway with such accusation as she's never felt before.

"Why?" Janeway inquires with horror, her mind now calling upon all of the Q's comments about Tom since they were taken from _Voyager_.

"Ego. Protocol. Vanity. It's all the interchangeable, really."

"I refuse to believe that I would ever discipline Tom because of my own personal feelings," Janeway retorts, crossing her arms.

"Because Starfleet Captain's aren't possessive?" Q smirks, arching an elegant eyebrow. "Even we Q aren't above feeling scorned."

Whatever feelings have welled within Janeway up to this moment, they are overtaken with complete outrage at the last implication.

"Lieutenant Paris is an officer aboard my ship. As you've noted, we have a unique relationship, but that's not the same as—"

"Desiring him?" Q supplies.

Janeway is about to unleash her full fury when the landscape around them disappears. Janeway spins around, finding herself and Q on _Voyager_. Or at least, what looks to be crew quarters on _Voyager_.

"You brought us back," Janeway says, a bit astonished.

"Mm. . . not quite," Q allows, and then snaps her fingers with a smile.

In font of them is a living area that Janeway vaguely identifies as Tom's. In it, Janeway and Paris (or what look to be versions of Janeway and Paris) appear, the pair already deep in conversation.

This other version of Janeway is explaining the plan to root out the traitor on board, and for just a moment Janeway thinks this is some kind of glimpse into her past.

But this isn't the way Janeway remembers proposing the plan to Tom. Tuvok was there, rather than just the two of them. And it didn't transpire in Tom's quarters.

"I'll still trust you, Mister Paris. You won't lose me."

Something about the low voice in which this other version of herself voices her assurance makes Janeway feel uncomfortable. She watches as the other Paris sadly relents, his Captain rising from her seat.

"Alright then," the other Janeway declares, but instead of making to depart she kisses her Lieutenant and begins tugging at his pants.

"Q!" Janeway snaps, spinning around as the second Janeway begins divesting Paris of his clothes.

"Don't blame me," Q maintains. "_She's_ the one kissing him."

"_Q_," she scowls again, cringing and pinching the bridge of her nose as sounds that any humanoid would recognize commence.

"Would you like to leave?" Q asks sweetly.

"Yes!"

Another flash, and another change of scenery. This time, they appear in an apartment, the window to their right looking out on a large park. In the distance, Janeway can make out the skyline of San Francisco.

With the quick movement of Q's hand, a second scene animates; this one involving versions of Paris and Janeway appearing several years older, though both still clad in Starfleet uniforms.

"Why is it that there's no right answer, with you, hmm?" this aging version of Paris teases, nuzzling into his counterpart's neck.

"There's a right answer," the other Janeway sighs. "It's just that not even I know what it is sometimes."

"Q," Janeway sighs harshly, and Q quickly halts the scene.

"Yes, Kathy?"

Janeway waves her arm, trying for the life of her to collect her thoughts.

"Why—why are you showing me all of this?"

"So you can see the futures and the pasts that aren't," Q replies, tilting her head as she watches the stilled scene a few meters from them.

The knowledge that this is a real universe—that it is, or at least was, possible—settles slowly over Janeway.

"I admit that I've explored a lot of your possible lives," Q confesses.

"A lot of _my_ lives?" Janeway repeats, the flush of both embarrassment and anger beginning to show on her face.

"More times than not, you end up with that borrowing fellow with the tattoo," Q sighs, "or else you never leave the Alpha quadrant and stay with Mark. . . And a lot of times you die tragically before any of that can come to pass."

The tone of Q voices these various possibilities in makes it clear she thinks the last outcome more desirable than the second, and especially the first. Impatient, Janeway shifts from foot to foot.

"So why are you showing me _these_ lives?" Janeway asks harshly.

"Because the ones in which you end up with our young helm boy are more interesting," Q volunteers. "Granted, they aren't especially plentiful among the continuum of possibilities. . . But I've tracked down each and every one, and I have to say they're far more entertaining than you staying on that trifling little planet with Commander Chuckles."

"You've tracked down every possibility in which Mister Paris and I are. . . romantically linked?" Janeway inquires, latching onto the first part of Q's statement rather than the last.

"It's kind of a hobby," Q says with a wink.

"Don't you think it's a little . . . irrational—spending time tracing things that never were and never will be?"

"They only 'aren't' from your perspective," Q retorts, signaling for the embraced couple in front of them to reanimate. "Don't worry, Kathy, I'll have the kids keep it clean. I know how your limited little species feels about the evils of pornography."

Even as Janeway scowls at Q's insult, she begins to watch with interest as the older version of herself interacts with this Paris. The obvious love and affection there. And beneath that, barely palpable, the faint tide of sadness between them.

"It is always this . . . painful?" Janeway asks eventually, recalling the crudeness and lack of intimacy—well, the lack of _emotional_ intimacy— evident in the last Janeway and Paris' interactions.

Q smiles at the sudden interest, even if it's in the form of fear and concern.

"Sometimes," Q allows, not bothering to point out to Janeway that pain is the natural counterpart to happiness. That love naturally comes with the attached concept of loss. "But sometimes, sometimes I think you're quite happy."

Janeway shoots Q a questioning look, and Q smiles once again. It's all the permission the being needs.

When Janeway emerges from glow of white light, it's only to be enveloped by warm air and sunshine; filled with the smell of trees and grass, and then, eventually, the scent of freshly cooked food.

They're in a large backyard of some kind, trees stretching out on every side of the property. The growth is of the kind native to the northwestern portion of the North American continent, but here Janeway's scientific mind shuts off, apparently eager to explore this next version of her life.

"Come on," Q says with a nod, "we're going to be late for dinner."

They traverse the yard they've materialized in, coming to a long wooden deck and climbing the stairs.

Immediately visible is a long table, teeming with food and people. Some faces Janeway doesn't recognize, but some she does. Chakotay and Seven. Harry Kim. Herself and Tom.

Like the last time, they're all several years older. And as if the shock of seeing Seven and Chakotay exchanging a kiss wasn't enough to take her breath away, it's then doubled by seeing a bouncing child playing on Tom's lap.

The child is clearly of Klingon descent, but she's just as clearly Tom's. She has the Paris chin and the Paris cheekbones; a stunning little girl who, after a moment of contentment with her father, promptly squeals and reaches for the version of Janeway seated to her right.

Everyone around the table listens as an attractive woman, a Trill, begins to tell a story. Kim blushes with embarrassment, a lovely woman next to him patting his leg affectionately, and the version of herself looking at Paris' counterpart with amused horror.

"Tom, you didn't?" her own voice floats to where Janeway stands, listening and watching intently.

"He did," the older Kim chimes, "and he even made me do it on the bridge."

The scene shifts, and time seems to speed up. The food disappears, the seating arrangement changes. When the crowd thins out, the only figures remaining are those of her staff, her own face bright and smiling as she snuggles into Paris under the setting sun.

"I confess this is my favorite," Q sighs, a bit wistful.

"They look happy," Janeway agrees. But doesn't trust herself to say anything else.

"It comes at the end of a long road."

"It usually does," Janeway observes.

Q nods, but remains quiet. The two women, mortal and immortal, stand still for a few more moments, taking in the happiness around them. Basking in the sunshine and the gentle breeze, the low rustle of leaves and branches.

"I think it's time to return you and your Lieutenant to your ship," Q declares, turning to Janeway.

"What? Now?"

"Good a time as any," Q replies. "And I think I've probably left helm boy frozen in that corner of hell long enough."

The recognition of where Tom is comes crashing back to Janeway. But at least, she consoles herself, it isn't as if he's worried after her, in her absence.

"Just one thing," Janeway begins, as they descend the stairs leading off the deck.

"Yes?" Q calls.

"Is any of this my future?"

Q pauses on the last stair, but doesn't look back at Janeway.

"It wasn't supposed to be," Q muses. And Janeway feels a surprising tide of pain materialize in her stomach. "But as we say in the Continuum, 'never say never.' "

Q descends the last step and Janeway dutifully follows. When the Captain's heel strikes the green grass, the sunlight and fresh air all disappear.

. . . . .

When Paris and Janeway materialize on _Voyager_'s bridge, the others are all in the same positions as when the two officers were first whisked away by Q.

"Captain," Chakotay says, standing up.

But then quickly remembers his state of dress and abruptly sits back down. Lest the loin cloth fail him.

"Are you unharmed?" Tuvok asks.

"We're fine," Paris supplies. "Q—"

Paris stops, realizing that Q is no where to be seen.

"You disappeared and then you reappeared immediately after," Kim interjects. "Did something happen?"

"Q took us to. . ."

Janeway's voice trails off, unable to summon the memories. It was all at the tips of her fingers, but now it's receding that stays with her are the faintest impressions.

Tom smiling at her over a plate of some kind of food. His blue eyes looking at her with a silent, desperate plea. The smell of fresh grass and the echo of voices filled with laughter.

She looks to Paris, but he only shakes his head. He doesn't remember either.

"You should both go to Sickbay," Chakotay warns eventually, and steeling himself against Janeway's protests.

"I'll go if you go, Captain," Tom chimes, heading off Janeway before her reply can even materialize.

"Fair enough," she sighs. "But don't think this is scoring you any points."

"I wouldn't dream of it, ma'am," the helmsman smiles, extending his arm as a sign that his CO should go first.

Janeway laughs instead of rolling her eyes, and as the twosome make their way to the turbolift, curious pairs of eyes trail them.

Just inside the lift, Paris lets out a melancholy sigh.

"Something wrong, Lieutenant?"

"I really don't want to go to Sickbay," Tom comments, in as close to a whine as he'll let out in front of the Captain.

Beside him, Janeway takes in a deep breath. She should remind him of protocol. She should tell him they all have to do things they don't want to, especially once they've committed themselves to rank and duty.

But she doesn't want to do any of this, because the obvious truth is that she doesn't want to go to see the Doctor either.

"Want to go to Sandrine's?" she offers. "I estimate we can probably get about four games of pool in before Chakotay realizes we're not in Sickbay and sends Tuvok after us."

Paris considers making a joke at the good Commander's expense, but instead he lets his sour expression speak for itself.

"Pool sounds good," he replies. "But it's a little less fun, playing with you."

"What?" Janeway demands, drawing herself up.

"You're too good," Tom smirks, realizing the childish hurt he's likely stirred in her prior to his explanation. "I'll never beat you."

Janeway rolls her eyes, calling for a new deck.

"Never say never," she cautions with a smirk.

Her smile proves contagious. And standing shoulder to shoulder, they both wait impatiently for their new destination.

* * *

><p><strong>End note:<strong> _Thanks for reading, and for those of you who regularly read my work, please click to my profile page for the brief update on the state of my current projects._


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